


Blasphemy

by orphan_account



Series: Purplebloods [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: A LOT of violence, Alternate Universe, Blood and Violence, Violence against Children, bloodswap, everyone is purple, from children, seriously, theres a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-13 01:47:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16007738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: When blasphemy is committed, the siblings of the Church act accordingly.In which everyone’s blood is purple, and a lot of it is spilled.





	Blasphemy

**Author's Note:**

> I forgot some of the words for troll anatomy so if you see mistakes....sorry suhdhdhd

“I didn’t want this,” You say, “it’s not my fault!”

 

It’s a cruel situation, being dragged by your own horns yet being unable to fight back. Try as you might, by planting your shoes on the ground or by feebly trying to wrench the strong hands from your horns, you can’t escape. You’re going to be dragged through your purple-dominated subgrub, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

 

Your pumper sends waves of fear through your body, so harsh that you almost shudder. But no. You refuse to give them the satisfaction. You scramble to keep hold of your pride, because you suspect that by the end of this, it’ll be the only thing that you have left.

 

Your shoes scrape along the ground, and the disturbance draws stares. The stares draws attention, and the attention draws a platform. A platform for humiliation.

 

“I’m still faithful to the Messiahs,” you try, lowering your voice, “I’m a painted sister, you see? Just like you. I wouldn’t commit blasphemy or treason for all the miracles on Alternia.”

 

You’re only rewarded with a purr in your ear, quiet yet threatening. “But you’re still a dirty little sinner, aren’t you?” 

 

Nepeta rolls her ‘r’s, and despite the matter at hand, her tone is cheerful. Ecstatic, even.

 

“Do not get distracted.” Equius huffs. His hand on your horn does not loosen. “We need to make an example of her. Get the word out.”

 

You twist your head around to watch as Nepeta nods and scuttles off, looking back and shooting you an unsettling grin.

 

“I’m assuming that any attempts to make you see reason will fail?” You twist again, trying to free yourself, but nothing.

 

“I don’t reason with sinners.” Equius gains an aggressive edge to his tone, and continues to drag you.

 

Despite the fear from your pumper turning your pan to mush, you know what’s coming: death. You’re going to die and nothing will be waiting for you. Not the Dark Carnival, not the Messiahs, nothing. They’re going to cull you for your blasphemy and watch you bleed for your treason. You’re going to die at six sweeps for a fate that was thrust upon you, unwillingly.

 

With a hard tug, Equius starts to pull you again. Some trolls ask what’s going on but Equius doesn’t answer, and neither do you. 

 

You’re hoping for a miracle. You need a miracle.

 

You’re not sure when you stop your pitiful attempts to free yourself. You only notice it when Equius starts moving faster, and that your body is limp. You sink as much as you can and let him drag you along like you’re already dead; like you’re a corpse ready to be fed to some troll’s lusus.

 

“You,” Equius says, “are lucky that we’re not just handing you off to an older troll. A sibling that is closer to the Messiahs.”

 

“I’m lucky you have your filthy claws on my horns instead of my clothes,” you hiss, “at least the Messiahs have given me that miracle.”

 

Equius stops, his entire body stiffening. You smile through your fear, showing off your fangs, because you deserve at least some peace, you think. When Equius starts walking again, he stomps with such force that his steps thump against the ground loudly enough to draw more attention.

 

“The Messiahs give no miracles to sinners.” You can hear him grinding his teeth as he speaks, voice rumbling in his throat.

 

You wish you could twist yourself around to watch his face, but alas. When you’d twisted to watch Nepeta go, you’d put yourself in a position where you couldn’t see his face anymore.

 

You stay limp as he continues to drag you, and the hives around you become nothing but blurs in your vision. The faces that have started to look your way are nothing but mist; things undeserving of names.

 

You don’t know when he stops again, because you only notice when a crowd gathers around you, unmoving and judgmental. You force yourself to look up at the cold sky and the bright moons. This way you don’t have to look at them, while not looking pitiful. More pitiful than you must look already, anyway.

 

Despite the buzzing, writhing fear in your pan, the voices sound excited. Their dark, twisted language worms it’s way into every edge of your mind, whispering and screeching at the same time.

 

You hear it when Nepeta returns. She makes her footsteps loud on purpose, stepping quickly towards you. Her grin is still unsettling and wide, but now she bears an almost crazed look in her eyes.

 

Nepeta and Equius exchange words, but you don’t listen. The world starts to feel not quite real, and the only thing you can hear is the harsh, quick beats of your pumper.

 

You do hear it, though, when Nepeta speaks to you, loudly enough that she’s almost addressing the crowd of purple.

 

“We thought you were a sister of the church!” Her voice is filled with faux despair. “We thought you were our sister!”

 

Equius forces you onto your feet, and you stand up straight. Even though you can feel your fear crawling into your throat, you swallow it and meet Nepeta’s eyes.

 

“Unfurtunately, you’ve done nothing but purrmit blasphemy behind our backs!” At the end of the sentence, Nepeta gasps, and runs a claw down her face to mimic a tear. 

 

The crowd murmurs, but you don’t look at them. You keep your eyes on Nepeta’s predatory gaze, her hands. You know she has metal claw weapons, but she hasn’t unsheathed them. Yet. 

 

“It’s such a meowtherfucking shame,” Nepeta sighs, “and to think you were my hatefuriend!”

 

Where she moves with fluidity and exaggeration, Equius moves stiffly as he keeps a hold of your horns. Nepeta goes to talk again, too-white teeth glinting in the moonslight, but you interrupt.

 

“As much of a fan as I am of your theatrics, I’d prefer it if you’d move along and get to the part where you cull me,” you say, not as firmly as you’d prefer.

 

The blow that you get to the back of your head turns your vision dark and sends cascades of pain through your entire body. It forces a choked noise from your mouth and sends your body reeling forward, but you can’t fall because of the grip on your horns.

 

Fear shoots through your chest like an arrow, and tears threaten to spill, but you refuse to cry. 

 

“You do not get to interrupt her,” Equius says.

 

You take in a gulp of air, and muster the sharpest hiss you can manage. “Then hurry up. Your idiotic speeches of faux emotion are boring me.”

 

Equius and Nepeta exchange a look. In an attempt to irritate them further, you ignore the wobbling of your lips to make a smug grin. From the look on Nepeta’s face, it’s working.

 

“Fine.” All of the fake positivity in Nepeta’s voice is gone, and she makes some kind of hand signal at Equius. 

 

He lets go of your horns.

 

You’re surprised by how hard it is to stay standing when he lets go. The world spins for a moment or two, and you realise it must be from the blow to your head. But you ground your feet, and keep your head up.

 

Nepeta meets your gaze and narrows her eyes. You don’t know why she hasn’t unsheathed her claws yet, because this would be the best opportunity to do so. You wonder if-

 

The sound of the punch reaches your pan before the pain does. When the pain does hit you, it hits you hard and fast, like he’s punched you twice. The world spins, and you fall. You fall so quickly that you can’t even out your hands out to stop the ground that rises up to meet you, and you think you hear a small crunch as your nose hits the ground.

 

Before you have time to recover, Equius kicks your side, forcing a wheeze from your now-tight throat. Your skin scrapes across the ground as the kick pushes you.

 

You can’t fight back. You know that much. You can recognise that they’re stronger than you. If the price weren’t your life, you’d say ‘fuck it’, but your entire being is on the line. You’re probably going to die, but there’s still one stupid, worthless part of you that clings onto the hope that maybe you’ll get to live if you comply.

 

So you can only raise your hands weakly as Equius grabs the back of the shirt to hoist your aching, screaming body off of the ground, and you can only flinch as Nepeta stalks towards you, claws unsheathed.

 

You can’t even hopelessly call for help as she moves to strike (you try to convince yourself that if you could, you wouldn’t, to keep your pride, but the tiniest part of you knows otherwise). 

 

You can’t move away as her claws move towards your body, and you can’t run as she sliced your flesh. You feel it as your thick, purple blood wells from the wound and into the fabrics of your shirt. You feel the stinging mix with the aching, and you it when Nepeta moves again, putting her claws IN you.

 

Embarrassing, pitiful noises escape from you, and even though you loathe how much more vulnerable it makes you feel, you can’t stop them. When Nepeta moves her claws, still dug into your skin, you almost scream. She moves them agonizingly slowly, and above the ringing in your pan, you can hear her laughing. 

 

Equius keeps his grip on you, even though you writhe in the pain. Moving around just makes it worse, but you’re starting to lose all logic just as fast as you’re losing your blood.

 

You can barely see. You can’t see. As Nepeta pulls her claws away, all while ripping your skin, you think you’re crying. You think you’re crying, and somehow, that makes the pain worse. 

 

You can feel yourself losing blood. You can feel it drip, drip, drip down your clothes. Highbloods have a lot of blood, but just that feels awful.

 

Just when the pain starts to lessen, just when you start to get some relief, Equius smashes you onto the ground, back-first. You feel like you’re burning and freezing and _dying._

 

The pain hits you over and over, merciless waves that never cease. You close your eyes, but he hits you, forcing you to open them as even more pain spreads through your cheeks and head and jaw.

 

He’s speaking. Equius is speaking, you can see that as your vision slowly unblurs. You can see his jaw moving and you can see his teeth but you can’t register the words. They’re nothing but background noise to compliment the incoherency in your thinkpan.

Either way, you can’t focus on him. Your vision rolls upwards, and the only thing you can feel is the agony slowly slicing through your body.

 

Slowly, you feel him let go of you, but it does nothing to help the pain. Even as you try to push yourself away, the agony rips through you again and forces you to lay still. 

 

The grip of Equius is quickly replaced with some kind of weight, and when your gaze rolls down, you see a shoe. Then you see Nepeta. She still wears that horrible, _horrible_ smile, and you feel the prick of her claws against your throat above the pain.

 

She talks, but you still can’t register words. Even as she presses her claws against you more, you can’t respond to whatever it is that she’s saying. Everything is fuzzy and agonising and you can’t control it at all and above the screaming fear, you despise it. 

 

She slaps you. One, two, three times. Hard. The only response your pan can conjure up is _ha, that’s going to leave a mark._ Your internalised humor does not give you relief.

 

Nepeta lowers her face towards you, only stopping when your noses nearly touch. She starts talking, again, and you finally understand her. 

 

“You better purray,” she says, loudly, “you better purray to the meowtherfucking Messiahs fur a meowtherfucking miracle. Confess your sins beclaws we’re gonna leave you here and unless the Messiahs are merciful enough to give you a miracle you’re not gonna be able to get up befur the sun rises.”

 

The information rings in your thinkpan, and it only makes sense when you repeat it to yourself a few times. 

 

It doesn’t occur to you that she _actually_ wants you to pray, and that ends up costing you. She gives you a long, deep cut across your forehead, but you barely react. You’re hurting too much to even flinch at it.

 

“Pray,” she hisses, lacking a pun.

 

You struggle to open your mouth, lips shaking and fangs shuddering against eachother. When you speak, your voice is hoarse and weak and quiet. It’s terrible. But you do it. You force your words out into the open air, so that Nepeta can hear, and you do it.

 

You pray.

 

Your voice does not steady as you do it, and it hurts on both a physical and mental level to do. You pray for a miracle that will leave you standing on your feet, and a miracle that you’ll be able to get away. You pray that your wounds will heal, and you pray for some sense of relief. Any relief. 

 

You can taste blood in your mouth, and you feel blood dripping down from the cut in your head. You feel the blood seeping out from your body and pooling around you. Your vision leaves you as blood drips into your eyes and your entire world goes purple, but, surprisingly, it doesn’t distress you as much as it should.

 

You weakly writhe and twist in your own blood, and you can feel Nepeta’s weight on you like a crushing force that shouldn’t feel just as heavy as it does.

 

Then silence.

 

Above your gasps for breath, there’s silence. Not even the voices in your pan are talking. Not even the crowd is talking. Not even Nepeta is talking.

 

So Equius splits the silence. “Those fake gods in your head cannot help you now, can they?”

 

You open your mouth to correct him. To tell him that _you’re sorely mistaken; they’ve never helped me_ but  you choke on your own blood and are unable to get the words out into the open air. 

 

Nepeta speaks after him immediately, like it’s something they’ve rehearsed. “Oh well. That’s a shame! Think we’ve done enough, here?”

 

“Perhaps make her bleed more.”

 

You barely get past the blood in your mouth to say, “wait.”

 

Nepeta doesn’t give you any verbal cues that she’s listened, and scores her claws down your arms. You don’t have to see her to know that she’s motherfucking smiling that awful, terrible smile.

 

You can barely even writhe anymore. The pain that you’re experiencing is troll hell, and that’s no understatement. 

 

You can’t see, you can’t scream, you can’t move, and you lost the chance to run ages ago. 

 

“If you somehow survive, don’t be coming back,” Nepeta says.

 

And then she’s gone.

 

And then it’s silent.

 

And then you realise that you’re probably going to die, lying in a puddle of your own blood, because you couldn’t be quiet about what must be delusions.

 

And then you lose all your trains of thought, and you sob.


End file.
